


In the Crush of the Dark

by InkTravesty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Daddy Kink, Detectives, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Murder Mystery, Praise Kink, Sherlock is a good boy, Spanking, Top Greg Lestrade, Virgin Sherlock, detectives being detectivy, well not cannonically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-27 13:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkTravesty/pseuds/InkTravesty
Summary: Sherlock was always telling Greg that he didn't observe enough. Until suddenly, quite by accident, he starts to. Fuck, Sherlock wasn't kidding.Too bad his newfound talent for observation coincides with a murder mystery that could ruin his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> This is a repost (...well a partial repost since I never finished it before...) that I deleted a while back, because I was going through a lot of shit, and didn't feel like a writer anymore. But I'm back, and trying again. Finally editing and finishing this stupid fic. And let's be real, I can tell you I'll update regularly and frequently, but I don't want to lie. So updates might be slow, but stick with me, and I promise I'll finish this sucker eventually.  
> (Do people even still read Sherlock/Greg stories anymore? I've been away for so long I have no idea anymore. Oh well I guess.)  
> Enjoy!

            It’s past midnight and Greg has a migraine. What should have been routine capture of a murderer had turned into absolute chaos the second that Sherlock Holmes decided to take matters into his own hands. In the end the killer had gotten away, Sherlock had a black eye for his efforts, and Greg more paperwork than he ever wanted again. Paperwork that he is pretty sure will never end.

            A noise echoing across the dark and empty desks at the Yard startles him, though he’s not at all surprised to see Sherlock emerge from the shadows and into his office doorway. Greg sees the black eye first, a vivid bruise blooming over pale skin, swelling Sherlock’s eye and pulling the skin even tighter over his cheekbone. He notices the faint flinch second, there and gone again, when Sherlock moves his head too quickly. Greg has a fleeting urge to cup and soothe the damage away while Sherlock watches, eyes staring and pleading in a way that makes him seem years younger.

            “Christ Sherlock, it’s late. What do you want?” Greg pushes his paperwork away, accepting the fact that his productivity had left him hours ago.

            “I need to look at the file again. I’m sure it can tell me where Iver is hiding out this time. I refuse to believe him clever enough to—” Greg laughs loudly in Sherlock’s face.

            “No fucking way, Sherlock. After the shit you pulled tonight?” He stands and moves to put on his jacket, anger making his movements jerky. “I’ve half a mind to stop pulling you for cases altogether, God knows we would catch more bloody criminals without you there to fuck it up.” Greg makes his way to the door where Sherlock is still standing. Sherlock scoffs but doesn’t budge.

            “You would never. Your success rate has increased greatly sin— “

            “Maybe,” said Greg, cutting him off again. “Maybe not. At any rate, you’re off this case, effective immediately. I’m in over my head with paperwork, half of my superiors are breathing down my neck because of your fuck up and I’m pissed. Now get out of my way so I can go home.” Sherlock shifts to straighten his posture and tower over Greg, trying to appear intimidating. But Greg catches another flinch and the move falls flat.

            “I could always just wait until you leave and then take the file,” Sherlock smirks. “Figuring out the code to the lock would take a matter of seconds, knowing you. Just give it to me and I can find Iver again.” Greg’s anger swells and he has the urge to blacken Sherlock’s other eye, to mark and add more color to the pale face. Instead he uses his anger to push the taller man backwards, slamming the door shut behind him.

            “Do that and I’ll haul you in and sic Mycroft on you – and then I’ll definitely never give you another case.” Anger and irritation lace his words, and Greg grabs a hold of Sherlock’s wrist in order to push him back. “Now be a _good boy_ , get out of my way, go home, and wait for _me_ to call _you._ ” He pushes again but has to catch himself on the door when Sherlock tenses up and quickly moves away, obeying. Wide eyes and an expression Greg can’t quite understand are locked onto him, but disappear seconds later as Sherlock turns away and storms back into the shadows, voice trailing over his shoulder.

            “Fine. Good luck finding Iver without me then.”

            Greg is left bereft, blinking in the darkness and still clutching the doorknob, trying to process what has just happened. As Sherlock slams a door somewhere beneath his feet, Greg is determined to forget the whole thing ever happened.

 

~

 

Except Greg can’t forget – not entirely anyway.

            It takes his team another week to track down Iver again, and he finds himself thinking about it nearly every moment he has free. When they finally have Iver locked in a cell and awaiting trial, Greg realizes that Sherlock has obeyed him and stayed away, silent for the entire week – the longest he’s ever gone without contact. He desperately tries to remember everything he had said that night – nothing has ever worked so well – but comes up blank. Threatening Sherlock with both arrest and Mycroft is a frequent thing, and usually only ever garners a huff of disgusted boredom. So what’s different this time?

            The question plagues Greg for days before his brain finally catches up; pouring himself a coffee, he nearly scalds his hand when he abruptly remembers what he’d said, what he’d called Sherlock.

            “Oh.”

            Greg suddenly remembers the event in perfect detail, details he had missed in his initial confusion: the faint tremor he had felt jerking Sherlock’s pulse as he’d held on, the emotions he can now identify as shock and embarrassment in his eyes, and yes, the hint of a blush creeping up his cheeks even as he tried to hide it within the shadows.

 

Fuck. Sherlock is right. Greg doesn’t observe nearly as well as he should.

 

            Greg knows he could very well be misinterpreting the entire scenario – is probably completely wrong and insane. But he finds himself fascinated by the images that flash through his mind; his fingers tangled in those dark curls, his hands spanning Sherlock’s smooth neck, leaving his own marks and bruises on unblemished skin. Watching that pretty blush curl up his cheeks when Greg calls him a good boy over and over.

            Greg huffs out a nervous laugh as he comes to a frightening conclusion: he wants all of that, more if Sherlock is willing. And oh god. Greg has to set down his cup to press his palms against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. He’s gotten this whole thing wrong, surely. He needs to stop this entire train of thought.

 

Greg laughs to himself again. “Fuck.”

 

~

 

The thoughts drive Greg up the wall – he has to know or he’ll go insane. He’s neither seen nor heard from Sherlock in nearly two weeks, though he refuses to believe (yet, he thinks) that it’s only because he told Sherlock to _wait_. But he has to know, desperately wants to try something.

            He calls Sherlock as soon as there’s a new case, the first case he gets, which turns out to be a garden variety murder that even Anderson could solve. But he feigns confusion and begs him to come down to the scene, to which Sherlock reluctantly agrees.

 

And if Greg fibbed a bit here and there in order to make the case seem more interesting, well he certainly can’t be blamed for that.

 

            When Sherlock arrives, he avoids Greg completely and deliberately by making a beeline straight towards the body. Greg uses the distraction to edge closer while Sherlock crouches at the head of the victim. The cause of death is glaringly obvious: a single bullet to the temple, though the lack of blood means it was dumped later, and it takes Sherlock approximately five seconds to turn an angry expression onto Greg.

            “Why did you call me Lestrade? Even Anderson could figure this one out.”

            Chancing a glance behind him, Greg makes sure his team is well out of hearing range. He takes a step forwards and lets his gaze drift casually up Sherlock’s neck, to his lips, to the bruise, which still stubbornly clings to his skin, and stops at his eyes, which are wide again. Sherlock breathes in sharply and Greg can hear the soft rub of leather as Sherlock’s fists clench together – Greg’s stomach clenches, though he keeps his gaze steady.

            “Well you were so good and did such a wonderful job of staying away like I asked, I figured you were bored out of your skull. Thought I could give you something to do,” Greg answers, and the younger man is unblinking and so still that Greg’s sure he isn’t breathing. He smiles. “Thought you deserved a reward for being a good boy.”

            That does it. It’s like a sudden torrent of rain – all at once, Sherlock blushes a dark pink that reaches from his cheeks to underneath his tightly wound scarf. He looks away but can’t seem to figure out where to settle his gaze, his eyes flicking from the body next to him, to Greg, then to his team in the distance and back again. He chooses the body, but gives Greg one last look and shudders at the expression on his face.

            “Yes well,” Sherlock clears his throat, his voice unsteady. “Next time save me the trouble will you? We agreed on nothing lower than a seven, even if it is some sort of…reward.” The last word is forced out, and the tips of his ears quickly turn as pink as the rest of him. Greg finds it utterly captivating. He wants to curl his tongue around a pink lobe and feel the skin grow heated as he tells Sherlock how beautiful and brilliant he is. Wants to hear Sherlock whimper and beg as he lets his fingers follow the pink gooseflesh down his body to see where it ends. Wants Sherlock to be a good boy for him. His.

            “Sir,” a loud voice calls behind him. Greg has to pull himself out of his fantasies in order to actually see Sally, who is beginning to look concerned. “Freak didn’t stay long. This murder not up to his standards?” Greg looks around with a jerk – he hadn’t even noticed Sherlock bolt – and sees his retreating form in the distance, wrapped up in his coat as tight as possible, hunched over and walking quickly without looking back. Greg’s eyes follow him, turning back to Sally only after he disappears around a corner.

 

~

 

In the aftermath of his little experiment, Sherlock continues to makes himself scarce. Even in the midst of some sort of snit, Sherlock never leaves Greg alone for long, always demanding something to do. But Greg’s phone remains silent. Another week passes and the Yard remains empty of his presence as well. Sally and Anderson joke about how maybe he’ll finally stay away. Greg rings Molly, but it seems Sherlock’s been avoiding her too – he starts to worry. God if he’s fucked this up so epically, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

 

            Greg decides the best course of action is to act like nothing has changed; even if all he wants to do is confront Sherlock about – well exactly whatever hasn’t changed. His team gets a new case: a double homicide that seems right up Sherlock’s alley, and though he doesn’t respond to Greg’s text, Sherlock shows up quickly and without hesitation. Throughout, Sherlock treats him with an air of professionalism that had never been there before, which bleeds into the weeks that follow as Sherlock begins to slowly stalk the Yard and crime scenes again. Like nothing ever happened.

 

And Greg can only try not to feel like an absolute twat; he did bring this upon himself after all.

 

            Eventually Greg can’t stand the distance between them anymore. He misses Sherlock, misses the camaraderie that years of knowing each other has built. He grabs a couple of cold cases from his desk as a peace offering, and heads to Sherlock’s flat. When he arrives, the windows are shut behind closed curtains but there’s a flutter in the corner of one that gives Greg the feeling he’s being watched. When he reaches the door, it swings open before he can knock and Sherlock is standing there, stiff in his usual suit, as if it were the thickest armor.

            “Lestrade,” Sherlock greets, his tone flat.

            “Sherlock. You’ve been quiet, haven’t seen you around much lately.”

            “I’ve had some cases elsewhere. And you’ve not called me for anything substantial.” He’s eyeing the files in Greg’s hand, clearly deciding whether or not it would be worth it to let Greg in.

            “Right, well, we’ve not had anything good in really. But I brought some cold cases that you might find interesting. Figured maybe your brilliant mind could solve them.” Greg curses himself as he lets the praise slip. He had promised himself earlier to tread carefully so as not to cause Sherlock to shut off again, but he’s been imagining scenarios where he does little else but praise Sherlock for weeks, and it just comes naturally now. Sherlock’s knuckles turn white where they’re clutching the door, but he eventually shoves it open enough to allow Greg to pass through.

            Once inside though, Greg has no idea what to do. Part of him believed that Sherlock would never let him get this far, but now the younger man is staring at him with a suspicious air and Greg just knows that he’s deducing every single nuance of his newfound fantasies and his guilt, deducing exactly how Sherlock himself fits into both. Greg wants to turn away but takes a single step forward instead, dropping the files in his hand onto the low table in front of the couch. Sherlock takes a single step back.

            “Lestrade, you should leave. I have experiments to finish. I’ll look at the cases and let you know if they’re worth my time. And it,” Sherlock swallows, his throat bobbing wildly. “And it would be better if you just left.”

            Greg feels like he’s in a dance; with every step he takes forwards, Sherlock answers with a step back, almost as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, until his back hits the door with a soft thump.

            “I’ll leave if you want me to, just say the word and I’m gone,” Greg’s voice is low and he reaches out to wrap fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. Feels the pulse pounding, strong and quick against his fingertips. “Really, I don’t want to force you into anything you find uncomfortable or don’t even want. And I’m sorry if what I’ve done in the past few weeks has fucked everything up. But I miss you and I…I care about you. If you understand what I mean and this is something you’re even remotely interested in, don’t be afraid to tell me. You have to have figured out by now that I’m serious.” Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but remains silent. Greg tries again. “Do you want me to leave, Sherlock? Please answer me.” Still, long seconds pass and Greg worries that he’s overstepped his boundaries completely. He’s about to let go and back away when the wrist he’s holding shifts and long fingers come up to mirror the contact. Sherlock gives the smallest shake of his head. Greg smiles in relief, and immediately takes another risk.

            “What’s that? Be a good and brilliant boy for me and tell me what you want.” The whimper that Sherlock lets out in response is practically pornographic, his head falling back to the door behind him and exposing a long uninterrupted line of pale neck. Greg has to adjust himself in his trousers, his cock suddenly so hard he can feel a wet patch starting to grow along the front.

            “Stay.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse. “I want you stay, please Lestrade. I understand. I want this. Want you.” Sherlock lets go to thump his fists against the door. Greg crowds him closer, placing his hands on either side of the trembling body, and brings their hips together. He feels an answering hardness, and the neck in front of him is flushed with pink. Greg leans in to nip sharply at the vulnerable skin. Sherlock moans loudly and arches his back, grinding their hips together.

            “Now, now. Address me properly, pet.” Greg leaves sucking kisses low along prominent collarbones, Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes, unable to form words.

            “Greg.” Greg bites down down hard enough to hurt and Sherlock _keens_ , offering up even more of his neck in supplication. Their hips are moving together and Greg is so turned on by all of the noises Sherlock is making, he knows it won’t take much more for either of them to come.

            “I’m sure my wonderful, brilliant boy can figure out what to say. One more try, pet,” Greg coos, using his tongue to soothe the bite he just made, willing Sherlock to arrive at the right answer on his own.

            “Please Daddy,” he groans, just as Greg crushes their mouths together, sucking on Sherlock’s bottom lip and curling their tongues together. Suddenly Greg is coming, harder than he has in ages. And Sherlock is tensing against him, hands rising up to clench fingers in Greg’s jacket as he comes as well. Sherlock eases out of the kiss to bury his face in Greg’s shoulder, chest heaving and fingers still holding on. Greg finally lets himself bring a hand up, tangling it into that dark head of hair as he drops a soft kiss to the closest patch of still pink skin.

            “Good boy.”


	2. Chapter 2

            An eternity passes before Sherlock’s fingers loosen from Greg’s jacket enough to fall back to his sides, and Greg’s knees start to wobble from the awkward position they’re in. They’re also wobbling from holding up nearly all of Sherlock’s weight, who has gone limp. And also from the rather fantastic orgasm he’s just had – he can feel the come in his pants becoming tacky and Greg dreads finally taking them off to shower. Yet he continues to remain still, save for his fingers smoothing the hair beneath them and his lips whispering words of praise in the younger man’s ear.

            He knows this is important, he knows how Sherlock is, how the younger man has trouble relating to other people, how he finds most of them beneath his field of vision. The fact that Greg is here holding him like this, this close, makes Greg feel like he’s been given something precious, something to protect. Something he never wants to let go.

            Over the years of working with the Yard, Sherlock’s abrupt nature and odd quirks have stained his reputation, even newcomers know about the ‘Freak’ who skulks about and can tell you in a moment what you had for dinner two nights ago. And though Sherlock tries to hide it, Greg knows how much he hates it, how insecure he is, can see it in the shuttered look the man gives every time it’s said to his face. Greg doesn’t want to give him any ideas that he’s being used, or that this was a one-time mistake. Unless, his heart stutters, that’s all Sherlock wants out of this – but he also doesn’t want to push the younger man too far too fast. Doesn’t want to do anything that earns that same shuttered look in response.

 

            Sherlock starts to shift in his arms, long eyelashes fluttering against his neck and Greg can feel a faint echo of desire pulse through him as he remembers how beautifully responsive Sherlock was when he finally let go, how beautiful Sherlock is now, curled in his arms and so trusting. How glorious he is when he’s in his element, spouting off obscure details of a crime scene one after another like they were written down in front of him. Greg shuts his eyes in defeat when he realizes he’s already so far gone that he’ll give Sherlock whatever he wants – even if it’s to forget this whole thing ever happened.

            There’s wetness in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes when he finally lifts his head, forcing Greg to slowly start untangling himself from around Sherlock’s body. A stray tear tracks down a cheek, and Greg catches it with a thumb, softly rubbing it away across warm skin.

            “Are you all right?” Greg asks, his voice rough and his palm still cradling Sherlock’s cheek, keeping his head up when the younger man tries to look away. “Talk to me, please.”

            “I…yes I’m fine,” his hand comes up to clasp Greg’s wrist, but makes no effort to push him away, in fact he leans into the support it provides. “I just never…I mean I’ve not,” Sherlock trails off and frowns, his lips still swollen from the harsh kiss minutes before. Greg tries not to think about how that sentence would have ended, but has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly what Sherlock is trying to say. His response sticks in his throat when Sherlock starts to tremble, using the hand at his wrist to tug him closer, hooking their fingers together and leading him towards the kitchen.

            “Hey, it’s OK. Let me get you some water, yeah?” Sherlock doesn’t reply, but his fingers clench tighter around Greg’s before he has a chance to let go, breath hitching uncontrollably. Greg takes an extra minute to pull Sherlock against him, rubbing his back with his free hand until erratic breaths even out and Sherlock pulls himself away, finally calm. The grip on Greg’s hand never weakens, so he fumbles awkwardly to coax Sherlock into taking large gulps until the glass is empty and back on the counter. Once again, Sherlock can’t seem to figure out where to look, his darting eyes nervous in the silence of the room.

            “Les – Greg,” Sherlock starts. But Greg notices his awkward stance and realizes that maybe Sherlock needs a minute away, needs time to gather his thoughts. Needs not to feel so vulnerable as he probably does in this moment.

            “Why don’t you take a shower? Use the time and hot water to clear your head? Besides,” Greg says, using his free hand to tug at an errant curl that sweat has made wonky as a teasing smile tugs at his lips. “You look like you could use one.” Sherlock’s ears slowly turn pink again even as he nods and his hooked fingers tighten once more.

            “Will…will you still be here when I’m finished?” Sherlock asks.

            “’Course I will, wouldn’t leave you like that, not now. Go on, we can talk more when you get out.”

 

~

            The second Sherlock disappears into the bathroom; Greg realizes he has no idea what the hell he’s doing. He busies himself with making tea, and reminds himself to breathe, trying to make sense of how they’ve arrived at this moment, trying to predict how this conversation with Sherlock will go.

            Greg knows what he wants out of this, now that he’s had this small taste he wants more. But it’s more than that too – though Sherlock has remained ever callous and exasperating, the two of them have managed an odd sort of friendship over the years and Greg has come to care for him. He’d meant what he’d told him before. He worries constantly about the younger man, about the drugs – which he knows are still a dangerous temptation – about his other acquaintances, about him running off in search of murderers. Greg has seen Sherlock at his worst, and done his best every time to help him get back on his feet, believing, even if no one else did, that Sherlock was worth the effort. Considering how he feels in the moment, It makes sense to Greg that something like this happening is the next step in their relationship; Greg wants to protect Sherlock to the best of his ability, needs to take care of him. He can only hope that Sherlock’s reactions mean that he wants to be taken care of.

            Greg finishes the tea at the same time Sherlock reenters the kitchen. He’s dressed, not in his usual suit, but instead in loose flannels and an oversized t-shirt. Despite the comfortable clothing, the vulnerability from before is gone and he looks calm, more himself, and his face and posture are both open and unguarded. Greg’s heart beats wildly in a surge of hope at the sight. Sherlock accepts a mug and clutches it tightly in front of himself with both hands, looking determined to start the conversation on his own, but his mouth opens and closes several times instead. Greg sips from his own mug and waits.

            “Before, that was…good,” Sherlock finally says. “I liked it, what we did.”

            “The feeling’s mutual, believe me,” Greg says, setting down his tea before turning to face Sherlock fully. “But seriously Sherlock, I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want. If you want to forget – or delete or whatever it is you do – that’s fine. I can walk -.”

            “I’ve never had sex with anyone,” Sherlock interrupts, eyes studying the surface of his tea. “Just so you know.” Greg is thrown off his train of thought. He remembers Sherlock’s stuttered words in the aftermath, is not surprised at his claim, has suspected that’s what the younger man was trying to say.

            “Ooh…kay,” he says, trying to regroup his thoughts. He didn’t mind, but did Sherlock? Was he telling Greg this because he didn’t want to have sex with anyone ever? Greg can’t really imagine that sex is something Sherlock thinks too much about, at least in terms of himself. Was his celibacy his choice?

            “You really don’t have to think so loud,” Greg can hear the eye roll in Sherlock’s voice, though he’s still looking into his cup. “You know what kind of person I am; most social niceties usually go over my head and I have never done well with dealing with my own emotions, let alone the emotions of others. I find it hard to trust anyone, although,” here Sherlock looks up at Greg shyly before looking back down again. “I’ve never met anyone I’ve trusted more. And I would be lying if I said that I’ve never thought about this, about you. With you,” Sherlock finishes, and Greg breath catches at the quiet confession.

            “So you like and trust me?” Greg can’t help but ask – has to know in no uncertain terms, wants to make sure nothing can be misunderstood.

            “You’ve been the only one to to help me when I’ve really needed it, and have never had an ulterior motive. You’ve never judged me harshly for my failures, though god knows I deserve it. I’ve never been in a relationship before – never wanted to be in one until now – and I’m sure I’ll get a lot of things wrong. But I – I’m willing to try.” Sherlock still hasn’t looked up, can’t see the honest smile that crosses Greg’s face as he slowly closes the space between them.

            “You like me,” Greg says. Sherlock keeps his eyes glued to the cup.

            “I’m pretty sure I just finished saying that.”

            “You’re attracted to me,” Greg can feel the heat of the mug as he takes it from Sherlock and sets it on the counter. Sherlock scoffs.

            “I think that’s fairly obvious at this point.”

            “I know that I want this, want you. I want to be with you, and whatever that entails. Do you want to be in relationship with me?” One last question, just to be completely sure. Sherlock finally looks up and into his eyes.

            “Yes.”

            Greg’s smile grows wider and he lifts his hand to settle it back onto Sherlock’s cheek, who leans into the touch.

            “Say it for me, tell me what you want.

            “I want to be in a relationship with you. I want you. Please.”

            “That’s my brilliant boy.” Greg leans up and he pulls Sherlock down to place a chaste kiss on that full bottom lip, watching as vibrant eyes fall shut in pleasure.

 

            Greg regretfully breaks the kiss a few seconds later, letting his hand fall to Sherlock’s shoulder to rub down his arm to finally catch and fold their hands together.

            “As much as I don’t want to, I really have to be getting back to work, and a change of clothes is definitely in order,” Greg says. As if on cue, he’s suddenly very aware of how uncomfortably his pants and trousers are clinging to his legs and groin, and he winces at the pull of tiny hairs. Sherlock notices and lets out a huff of laughter.

            “Yes, you should probably take care of that. And I really do have experiments to finish,” he motions to the kitchen table where a microscope sits accompanied by slides covered in questionable substances. Greg doesn’t want to know what they are.

            “You’re impossible; go on and finish them then. But I could come back when I’m done for the day. We could have dinner? I’ve the day off tomorrow.”

            “I would like that,” Sherlock says. Greg squeezes their hands together once more and places one last kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

            “I’ll see you later then.”

 

~

 

            There’s no answer when Greg knocks on the door later that night. When he tries the knob though, he isn’t surprised when the door opens to reveal Sherlock still glued to his microscope, muttering to himself and taking notes.

            “Have you moved at all since I left?” Greg asks, but Sherlock gives no indication he even knows he has company. “Sherlock,” he tries again and still nothing. Greg comes up behind him and slides his fingers into the other man’s hair, tugging gently to get his attention. Sherlock tenses until he realizes who it is, letting his pen fall to the table and his head back to rest on Greg’s stomach.

            “Oh hello. Is it later already?” Sherlock asks.

            “Yeah. Have you been sitting there since I left?” Greg smiles at him, his nails scratching across Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock is mid-nod when he breaks into a groan and arches his neck, rubbing his head against Greg’s stomach; mussing his curls and forcing the nails to scratch harder. A slow curl of arousal creeps up Greg’s spine in response. He can only remember a handful of times when Sherlock has let another person touch him outside the parameters of medical care; yet Sherlock is so beautifully receptive to Greg’s touches, he almost can’t believe that this is all real.

            “Are you hungry beautiful?” He gives a particularly sharp scratch and Sherlock moans loudly, spots of pink appearing high on his cheeks.

            “Not really,” his body arches more with every scratch, like a kitten trying to soak up as much attention as possible.

            “When was the last time you ate?”

            “Yesterday? I think?” Sherlock’s voice is breathy and he lets out a low whine when Greg pulls up with his fingers and forces him to stand and face him.

            “That’s not good enough, Sherlock. Good little boys need to eat and keep their strength up. You want to be my good little boy, right?”

            “Yes Daddy, please. I want to be your good boy.” Greg’s nails scratch across the the back of Sherlock’s skull and down his neck, a trail of pink following in their wake.

            “You’re wonderful. Now take a break and go sit on the couch. I’ll order us some food.”

 

            When the food is ordered and settled on the low table in front of the couch, Greg levels Sherlock with a stern look when he notices how he’s managed to only push he food around his plate.

            “Eat. Don’t make me tell you again.” Sherlock’s nose wrinkles, (Adorably, Greg thinks.) but he spears a piece of chicken and takes a full bite. Greg’s gaze softens as he breaks the silence again. “Sherlock, look. I want to do this properly, and I don’t want any chance of miscommunication between the two of us in this. If there’s anything you don’t like, tell me – likewise if there’s anything you do like and want to do again. If there’s anything you feel you want or need from me, I want to know. If you have questions, or a problem, or just want to discuss something, please don’t just ignore it.” Greg pauses to make sure Sherlock is listening; he’s abandoned his surprisingly empty plate on the table and is concentrating on Greg with rapt attention and furrowed brows. “I know how you operate. I know that you believe emotions to be mostly useless and beneath you, but they’re important here, _your_ emotions are important. You told me you were willing to try. Do you understand that it’s important? Will you try?”

            “Will you try as well?” The question is unexpected, but it pleases Greg to know that Sherlock cares as much about his as he does.

            “’Course I will. I would never ask anything of you that I wouldn’t be willing to give in return. I would never ask you to do anything that I’ve not experienced myself either.” Sherlock studies him a second longer then nods, satisfied with his answer.

            “I can’t promise it will always be good; you’re right, I prefer logic to emotion, sometimes to the point of neglect in myself and others. But I do recognize the importance of this, and I am willing to try for you.”

            “Thank you, all I want is your willingness to try.” Greg sets his own plate down and turns to face Sherlock fully. “A few more things. Do you know what a safe word is?” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

            “I may be a virgin, but I do know some things. And I hardly think a safe word is necessary.”

            “Nope. This is a non-negotiable term, Sherlock. You just admitted you sometimes neglect yourself and your emotions. I want to be here to take care of you, give you what you need; and that will most likely include taking you beyond your comfort level. If you suddenly need an out, I need to know immediately that you’re serious even if we’re in the middle of a scene. If you want this to continue then you’ll pick one.” Sherlock’s petulant expression begins to smooth out as he recognizes the significance of the moment. “You don’t have to choose now; in fact, I want you to take a day to think about it. Pick a word that means something to you, but wouldn’t normally come up into conversation between us. Can you do that for me?”

            “Yes, I understand,” Sherlock nods. Greg leans forwards and lays a hand on Sherlock’s knee, rubbing small circles with his thumb. Sherlock’s breath hitches.

            “Good boy. Is there anything you know you absolutely wouldn’t like?” His other hand joins in and he rakes his nails up from knobby knees to fleshly thighs.

            “No, uh no extreme bodily fluids. Some pain is all right, but nothing debilitating. Nothing public and please don’t share me with anyone else.” The last few words are more gasps than syllables as Greg moves closer and closer to his erection, which is now clearly defined against the seam of his pajamas, with every swipe of his nails.

            “Oh don’t worry pet, I would never share you. Why would I share such a brilliant, gorgeous, good little boy when I can keep you all to myself?” Greg still hasn’t touched Sherlock where he wants to be touched, and his hips rock up against nothing, trying to get friction.

            “Please Daddy,” Sherlock sobs. “Please touch me.”

            “I already am, precious. Where exactly do you want me to touch you? Tell me what you want.”

            “Everywhere, please just touch me everywhere, anywhere.” Greg’s nails skirt around Sherlock’s cock to burrow themselves underneath his t-shirt, scratching up hot skin until they catch gently on his nipples and move back down again.

            “Where do you want me to touch you, pet?” Sherlock’s hips buck up violently, his breath ragged.

            “Oh god. Please touch my cock.”

            “That’s what I like to hear. Lie back and lift your hips for me.” Greg pauses in his motions long enough to tug Sherlock’s pajamas down just far enough to expose a thin erection wet with pre-come, and he’s delighted to see that the tantalizing blush reaches down to where his fingers tug on coarse pubic hair. Greg wraps one hand around the heated length, quickly stroking up to rest his thumb on the frenulum, slickness making it easy for him to continue rubbing small circles even there. His other hand moves up to play with Sherlock’s nipples, letting his nail bite gently into the sensitive nub before soothing the pain away and repeating the process.

            “God, I wish you could see yourself; you’re so beautiful laid out like this for me. Letting Daddy touch you however he wants. My brilliant, gorgeous boy, your skin is so flushed and you’re so close aren’t you?” And god, Greg is too. But the thought of seeing Sherlock come utterly undone at his hands gives him the resolve to hold on just a bit longer. “But remember, you can’t come until you ask nicely.”

            Sherlock is gripping the cushions beneath him, trying not to thrash wildly, his knuckles white with the effort and his cries at a near crescendo. “Oh. Oh. Daddy! Please, I’m going to come. Oh god please, Daddy, let me come for you. I’ll be so good I promise.”

            Fuck Greg almost can’t hold on.

            “Come for Daddy, baby. Be a good boy and come now.” Sherlock opens his mouth but doesn’t make a sound, body convulsing as he paints his own chest in come. Greg looses it. He kneels up on the seat and snatches his hands away to fumble with buttons and fabric until cool air is hitting his own cock. He falls forward again until he’s hovering above Sherlock’s prone form, nestled in the vee of his legs, supporting his weight on one hand while reaching for himself with the other. He can’t even be embarrassed that he doesn’t get a full stroke in before he’s coming too, adding even more decoration to Sherlock’s flushed skin. He sags for a second, then gathers Sherlock in his arms to hold him through the last wrings of his orgasm, uncaring of the sticky mess between them. When he finally goes limp, Greg shifts them on their sides so they can lay together, moving his arms to reach Sherlock’s back and gently scratch up and down until the younger man is asleep in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading, and for those who have left comments. They warm my heart.

            “You’re whistling.”

            Greg looks up from where he’s going through cold case files; Sally is giving him a scandalized look from across his office, where she’s going through her own files.

            “What?”

            “I’ve been working with you for years, and I’m one hundred percent sure I’ve never heard you whistle. I don’t think I even knew you could.”

            Greg tips his head back down, willing away the blush he can feel warming his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he’d been making any noise at all – thoughts of Sherlock battling with thoughts of the files in front of him. When Sally had caught him, Sherlock had been winning. He hides his embarrassment behind a scoff.

            “I’m sure I’ve whistled around you before; you just don’t remember.”

            “Nope, not once. Or at least not once in recent memory. And in either case, it’s a bit creepy to be so happy while going through these old things. What’s the deal?”

            “Nothing, just woke up in a good mood. Oi! Stop trying to distract me to get out of this,” Greg teases. Sally sends him a mock glare before turning back to her work.

            “Yeah yeah, whatever you say. Still creepy.”

            Greg makes another valiant effort to focus on his work and lasts approximately ten minutes before Sherlock manages to pry his way in again. This thing with Sherlock is still so new, so unknown, but Greg is happy – stupidly happy if he were honest with himself. A week into their relationship and Greg often has to remind himself that no one has any idea what’s going on. And that it creeps people out when he goes around the office and crime scenes with a dopey grin on his face.

            What’s more is that Sherlock is happy; not in any obvious way, really, but Greg can tell in the soft look in his eyes when they’re alone. Can see it in the way that Sherlock’s affection towards him comes more and more easily with every passing day – comfortable in initiating touches, or simply curling up against him when sitting on the couch. Greg knows that a part of this comfort has to do with the fact that they’re taking things slow, letting Sherlock call most of the shots in what they do, what he wants to do. They haven’t had sex yet, but Greg doesn’t even care, willing to wait until Sherlock tells him he’s ready; or even tells him he’ll never be ready, if that’s what he ultimately decides. Just being with Sherlock is enough.

            Greg stifles a groan, staring blankly at the paperwork in front of him. He’s utterly fucking besotted. In a fucking week no less. Making his mind up quickly, he stands up and pushes the files away from him.

            “Right, these things have waited for years, a few more hours won’t hurt. Fancy some lunch?” Sally smiles at him in relief.

“Yes, thank god. Let’s get out of here.”

 

~

 

            Sherlock is preoccupied when Greg lets himself into his flat later that night, wearing a hole in the floor with his pacing. Greg knows Sherlock’s not working on a case, and there’s none of his usual experiment equipment strewn about. When Greg tries to get his attention he gets nothing in response and it becomes clear that the younger man is deep in his mind palace. Greg takes the time to remove his jacket and shoes, and make them both a cup of tea, sitting on the couch and waiting until Sherlock emerges from wherever he’s gone.

            Soon enough Sherlock stops moving abruptly, stopping in front of Greg with wide eyes and color slowly crawling up his neck.

            “Greg. I – when did you get here?”

            “Not that long ago, pet. Is there something troubling you?” Sherlock’s mouth opens, but closes just as quickly, shaking his head instead; his hands coming up to twist together. He’s nervous about something. When Sherlock stays silent, Greg gives him a comforting smile and gestures to the tea. “Come and sit down and have some tea, it’s still warm. You can talk to me when you’re ready. No hurry, we have all night.”

            Sherlock complies, but surprises Greg when he ignores the tea completely and moves to straddle his lap, knees on either side of muscular thighs, gripping Greg’s shoulders and burying his face in the side of his neck. Greg grabs on to Sherlock’s hips in response.

            “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

            “I want you to spank me,” Sherlock says, muffled, face half hidden in his shoulder. Greg’s fingers tighten that much more on on bony hips when he can feel Sherlock’s cheeks warm in embarrassment. The sharp way he says ‘spank’ has decadent images flashing through Greg’s mind before Sherlock’s voice has time to fade – god, how has he never even fantasized about spanking Sherlock until now?

            “Are you sure, pet? Do you think you’ve done something to deserve a spanking?” Greg’s hands inch slowly from hips to arse, fingers clenching and dragging Sherlock even closer. Neither are hard yet, but Sherlock grinds down with a breathy whine anyway.

            “No. I just, I just want you to. Keep thinking about it, about you. Please Daddy?” A broken moan forces its way past Greg’s lips as Sherlock shifts his hips in small circles.

            “Have you thought about Daddy spanking your arse while touching your pretty little cock?” Greg’s hips thrust up as Sherlock grinds down and there’s a muffled sting of teeth at his shoulder, where Sherlock is still hiding his face.

            “Yes.”

            “Did you come while thinking about how tender you would be after? About how every time you moved you would remember that it was my hands that did that to you?”

            “Oh god, please!”

            “Answer the question, pet.”

            “Can’t stop thinking about it, want your hands on me. Want you to spank me.”

            “What a perfect boy you are. Have you ever been spanked before?”

            “No. Never.” Sherlock is definitely hard now, and quickly becoming more desperate. Greg as well. He grips Sherlock’s hips so hard he’s sure he’ll leave bruises, bringing the frantic moving to a stop.

            “Even better. Go into the bedroom and wait for me.”

 

            It’s clear, when entering the bedroom five minutes later, that Sherlock has put a lot of planning into this whole scenario. Greg finds him already naked and waiting on all fours on top of the bed, thighs trembling and head hung low between prominent shoulder blades. The parts of Sherlock’s face that peek out between his curls are flushed a dark pink, and his cock is even darker, straining down towards the mattress with a drop of pre-come threatening to fall from the tip. There’s also a glass of water, a damp cloth, and even some cooling crème sitting on the side table.

            “Well, you certainly are prepared, aren’t you pet?” Greg asks, stepping closer and trailing light fingers down the smooth back and lush curve of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock’s back arches at the touch.

            “Told you,” Sherlock breathes, trying to follow the fingers as they trail up and down. “Can’t stop thinking about it. Want it so badly. Please.”

            “Don’t worry pet, soon. I promise.” Greg coaxes Sherlock back off the bed, who looks at him with confusion until they’re settled again with Greg sitting back against the headboard and Sherlock sprawled rather inelegantly across his thighs. “Isn’t this much better pet?”

            “Please, Daddy.”

            “You beg so nicely, such a good polite little boy. Do you remember your safe word?”

            “Bromide.”

            “You’re so good for me baby. Let’s start with twenty, and don’t move. Are you ready?”

            “Yes, Dadd – oh!” Greg’s palm coming down to strike Sherlock’s left cheek catches him unaware, arms automatically coming up to try to block his bum from anymore hits. Greg gently moves them so they’re cushioning Sherlock’s head, fingers immediately curling into the bedding below to keep themselves still.

            “You can do this Sherlock,” Greg says. “You’re such a good boy. Try not to focus on the pain, but how it’s making you feel; on how proud you’re making Daddy.” Sherlock’s nod is accompanied by a small whimper. Greg’s hand comes down again, just as harsh, catching Sherlock’s right cheek. The younger man cries out, but manages not to move. “Beautiful. I knew you could do it.”

            Greg stops briefly after the tenth stroke, and takes a second to admire the very pretty picture Sherlock makes: head turned towards him, full lips open and wet as he breathes heavily through the pain, eyes clenched shut and eyelashes wet with unshed tears, arms and legs trembling with the force of keeping himself still. Arse bright red and hot, urging Greg to touch and knead.

            “Halfway through, baby. You’re doing do well, how do you feel?”

            “So hot, skin feels like it’s burning. Feels good. Don’t stop Daddy.”

            “Don’t worry pet, not yet.”

            After stroke fifteen, Greg pauses again. “Touch yourself with one hand, but keep the other underneath your head.” It’s awkward, with the intrusion of Greg’s thighs and knees, but Sherlock manages it – the position forcing him to his knees while his feet still hang in the air, and of course forcing his arse a little higher too.  “Touch yourself while Daddy spanks you, but don’t come yet, understood?”

            “I’m so close Daddy.”

            “I know baby, but we’re almost done. Hold on just a little bit more.”  
            Stroke nineteen has both men moaning. Sherlock’s hand is tight on his cock, trying not to lose control before he’s allowed.

            “Daddy, let me come please!” Greg groans at the sound of desperation in Sherlock’s voice.

            “You’re about to come from your Daddy spanking you, aren’t you baby?”

            “Yes!”

            “Such a good boy. Come for me now.” Instead of one last stroke, Greg uses both hands to drag his nails lightly down both sides of Sherlock’s arse, across the red hot marks he’s left. Sherlock’s knees give out, body collapsing into the Greg’s lap as he shouts his release, cock jerking as he comes. Greg can only watch in awe at how responsive Sherlock is; gasping into the bedsheets to catch his breath, back still arching with tiny aftershocks of pleasure. His own pleasure forgotten, Greg hums nonsense and rubs Sherlock’s back. Once he’s breathing normally, Greg carefully eases Sherlock’s limp body out of its awkward position and gathers him close, pushing the soiled bedclothes away and once again leaning back against the headboard. He feeds Sherlock water, gently wipes his face free of tears and sweat, and finally rubs the crème into the burning flesh. When he’s done he curls around Sherlock’s limp form, murmuring words of praise against Sherlock’s ear, waiting for him to come to.

            “Thank you Daddy.” Sherlock’s voice is raspy and groggy, and he inches in closer to Greg’s chest when he realizes where he is.

            “Thank you, Sherlock. That was beautiful, you were beautiful. How do you feel? Is there any pain still?”

            “No. I feel perfect.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Now with actual, new and improved plot!***

Paperwork. Greg hates paperwork. And he’s clearly left his head behind with Sherlock, sleep-warmed and sated, curled up amid pillows and blankets – it’s certainly where he’d rather be than stuck in his office at the Yard. Greg reads the page in front of him sluggishly, distracted by flashes of memory between every other word; the sharp curve of Sherlock’s back as he comes, fingers tangled up in sheets and with Greg’s own. Sherlock’s sleepy smile in the weak morning light as Greg wakes him to say goodbye and promise he’ll be back that evening.

            Greg throws down the paper he’s holding in a huff after he’s read the same sentence multiple times. Ridiculous. He’s acting like some lovesick teenager. Had been for some time now, really. He lets his head drop and hit the desk with a loud thunk and works to convince himself at how unprofessional it would be to wank at work to the memory of Sherlock calling him ‘Daddy’. It’s more difficult that he thought it would be.

            The door to his office opens and Sally appears, looking frantic and trying to pull her jacket on while juggling her keys and a coffee.

            “Sir, call just came in, one body, pretty gruesome from what I’ve – everything all right? Sir?” In the moment Greg could have kissed Sally for the interruption, head still down and hand closer to his fly than he would have liked.

            “Yeah, yes. Sorry, bit of a headache is all. Tell me what’s happened.” Greg chooses to ignore the frown on Sally’s face until she continues speaking again.

            “Victims name is Harvey Klemm, 44. He was stabbed multiple times before his throat was cut, found by his girlfriend. First officers on the scene said it was a mess.” The name rings a bell for Greg, though he can’t pinpoint it. It flutters in the back of his mind, trying to grasp on to how he knows it but comes up empty handed, choosing to push the thought away in order to rush with Sally to the crime scene.

 

            It’s not until he sees Anderson’s eyes widen at their arrival that he thinks he should have tried harder to remember the name. Anderson’s mouth and Greg’s car door open simultaneously.

            “Lestrade, someone should have called you. Leavy’s taken over the case, he arrived ten minutes ago.” Greg fumbles around his pockets and realizes his phone is missing, most likely forgotten in his rush to leave.

            “Well, why were we called at all then?”

            “It wasn’t until we identified the victim that we -.” A cry cuts through Anderson’s voice and suddenly Greg’s arms are full of blonde hair and beating fists.

            “You motherfucker! You did this, you killed him and now you have the nerve to show up here!” The woman screams, and Greg can only stare in disbelief as he grabs flailing wrists and looks into the face of his ex-wife.

            “Emily? What the hell are you talking about? What’s happened?” But Greg doesn’t need telling, finally connecting the dots and remember why Harvey Klemm sounded so familiar – the tall, devastatingly handsome asshole his wife had left him for. Oh god, someone had killed him? “Emily, how could you even think me capable? I had nothing to do with this.”  
            “Liar!” She sobbed, still struggling against his hold. “You were pissed when I left. You hated Harvey.”

            “Of course I was pissed, I loved you! I loved you and you cheated on me. I may have hated him, but I would never kil – .”

            “He told me! He told me you called him yesterday and wanted to talk to him, wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings. And now he’s dead. You killed him!” Emily’s crying is hitting hysterical levels and Greg looks around frantically for help, realizing that nearly everyone is a witness to their exchange. Sally and Anderson are huddled together to his left and Greg summons them closer.

            “Sally, will you take Emily to the paramedics? Try to calm her down if you can.” Sally wraps her arm around the smaller frame and Emily goes limp, letting herself be led away. As soon as his arms are empty, Greg is greeted by the heavy frown on Leavy’s face.

            “You can’t be here Greg.” Leavy’s voice is low, so they can’t be overheard.

            “Christ, I know. Just, just tell me what happened then I’ll leave.”

            Leavy covers their conversation by leading Greg back to the car slowly. “Emily found him this morning, Anderson puts time of death at about ten to twelve hours ago. No sign of forced entry, nothing stolen. I have to tell you, Greg, it’s a mess in there. This was excessively violent, and personal. Someone wanted Klemm dead specifically,” Leavy tells him. Greg pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes through the unease he can feel creeping up his spine. Leavy inches closer and places a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Listen, I heard what Emily said and you know I hate to ask, but where were you last night?”

            “I was at…” Sherlock’s, Greg almost says. Sherlock is his alibi, but telling Leavy means telling the entirety of the Yard where he was, the exact nuance of his new relationship with Sherlock.

            He can almost picture it: his team knowing within hours, the Yard by the end of the day. Hushed whispers and ugly rumors ruining any credibility that Sherlock may have built up over the years; his reputation would never disappear. Greg would only be spared because of the respect he worked so hard to earn, but that respect wouldn’t stop the jokes, wouldn’t stop the leers and rumors. In the few scant weeks they’ve been together Greg has been content to keep their relationship a secret. Hasn’t even felt the need to broach the topic of ‘what-ifs’ or what their future may hold; but Greg knows Sherlock would never forgive him if their personal lives were made public before he was ready.

            “Home. I was at home. By myself,” he finally answers.

            “And the call Harvey supposedly told Emily about?”

            “I never called him, hell I never spoke more than ten words to him. You can check my phone records, when it comes to it. Anything you need, I swear.” Leavy gives him a solemn nod and walks the rest of the way to the car in silence where Sally’s waiting.

            “Why don’t you go back to the Yard. Don’t worry about this, we’ll take care of everything. I’ll let you know if and when we need anything.”

            Greg forces himself to chuckle. “Easier said than done, right?” Leavy claps him on the shoulder one last time before walking back inside to the crime scene. As Sally pulls the car away, Greg sees Emily slumped against the side of the ambulance; eyes open in an unnerving stare glued to his retreating form.

 

~

 

            If Greg’s concentration was frayed before, it’s completely shot now. He spends an hour doing nothing but watching his team and colleagues move around the room beyond his office window, until he can’t stand just sitting anymore. He gets up to make himself a coffee but the walk to the break room is torture – eyes and low voices follow him the entire way, and Greg knows exactly what their topics of discussion are.

            Deciding to forego the coffee, Greg detours to the bathroom for a moment in order to breathe and parse out facts: someone killed his ex-wife’s boyfriend. That same someone, if what Emily said was true, called Harvey pretending to be him to set up a meeting. The killer made Harvey’s death look personal.

            Greg sighs and presses his palms hard against his eyes in an attempt to stave off the migraine he feels coming. He can only come up with one logical answer.

            This someone was smart. Whoever the killer was, they knew Harvey would tell Emily about the phone call and how she would react to seeing Greg there. Knew there would be witnesses. They knew…oh god, did they know about Sherlock? Was he being followed? Did they figure out where he was and who he was with almost every night and bank on the fact that neither Greg nor Sherlock would want anyone learning about them? If that were true, then Greg played right into their hands by lying about his whereabouts. Changing his alibi now would seem suspicious, but how would it look if people found out he had lied?

            Questions form nonstop in Greg’s mind, and he may not be able to legally work this case, but that won’t stop him from getting at least some of the answers on his own. Rushing out into the main part of the building, he runs into Sally.

            “Sally, good. Listen. I need you to do me a favor please, and look into all the criminals we’ve put away since I became DI. See if any of them have recently gotten out.” He pauses to take a breath and notices that Sally is holding his jacket. “Err, why are you holding my coat?”

            “If they constant stares were driving me up the wall, then I figured you were going stir-crazy. I was coming to tell you that I would cover you if you needed to leave for the day,” she says, handing his coat over and stepping closer, voice lower. “And also to tell you that Leavy called to say they found the murder weapon. Said he would breathe down their necks so they had the fingerprint analysis done as soon as possible.” Sally steps back and speaks at a normal volume. “Don’t worry, I’ll look into the matter, Sir. Now go or you’ll be late.” Greg can’t help the look of overwhelming gratitude that fills his face as he thanks Sally and turns to leave before anyone else can stop him.

 

            He’s sitting on his couch with a mostly full beer bottle in his hand when the knock on his front door comes. Greg is surprised to see Sherlock on the other side, and even more surprised to see the concern on his face.

            “Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

            “You were meant to come over after you’d left work. You weren’t answering your phone.” Sherlock’s eyes are busy moving over Greg’s face and body, trying to pick out secrets. “Something’s happened. Are you all right?”

            “Christ, Sherlock I completely forgot. I’m sorry.” Greg moves aside to let Sherlock past him. “It’s been a shit day, and I left work early. I’m fine, aside from feeling like a train’s gone and plowed through my head. Do you want anything? Are you hungry?”

            “No, thank you,” Sherlock says, removing his coat and folding it over the back of a chair.

            “Yeah me either,” Greg sighs and drops heavily back onto the couch. Sherlock frowns.

            “Do – do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock’s voice sounds unsure and Greg takes a minute to soak him in; Sherlock has come a long way in the last few weeks, making good on his promise to try. But in the face of heavy emotion Sherlock is still uncomfortable, still so unsure of himself, and now he looks awkward standing, posture rigid and straight, in the middle of the living room. But his face shows genuine concern, the fingers of his right hand twitching, itching to make some kind of move. Greg smiles and pats the seat next to him.

            “Come sit down,” he offers. Sherlock perches on the edge of the seat, looking restless, but Greg reaches out and slides a hand into his hair and tugs so Sherlock is forced to toe off his shoes and curl up on the couch with his head in Greg’s lap. Talented fingers scratch and soothe until Sherlock is pliant and groaning, pushing his head back into the movements. Sherlock reaches for Greg’s free hand and tangles their fingers together. The companionable silence helps to soothe Greg’s frayed nerves as well, and he lets himself forget the building unease for the moment, choosing instead to sit with Sherlock for several minutes before he feels calm enough to speak again.

            “Someone murdered my ex-wife’s boyfriend. The man she cheated on me with.”

            “And you didn’t call me? Why not, I would have helped you. Do you know who did it?” Sherlock is immediately alert at the prospect of a new mystery and poised to hop back off the couch, but Greg hangs on and forces him to be still.

            “No, pet. Calm down now. I was taken off the case – Emily was there when I got to the scene, said that Harvey told her last night that I called him wanting to meet up.”

            “Someone’s framing you! Even more reason for me to help you. You’re clearly not a murderer, even Anderson should be able to deduce that. You know I can figure out what’s going on,” Sherlock sounds agitated, but makes no other attempt to move.

            “I know pet, thank you. They asked me where I was last night,” Greg says quietly. Sherlock sucks in a breath, as if he didn’t realize that everyone might know the truth. He turns his body around so he’s facing the other man, looking up with blinking eyes.

            “Did you tell them?”

            “We never talked about how much of this was to be kept quiet, and I know how much the work means to you. I wanted to protect you from anything negative that may be brought up by this, so I told them I was home. Alone.”

            Sherlock is silent for several beats. “Protect me?”

            “Well yes,” Greg says confused. “I didn’t have time to figure something else out, and I didn’t want you to be unprepared. If it comes out later, it comes out. I’m not ashamed of you or us, but until you give me the all clear, it won’t be revealed – by me at least.”

            “Thank you.” With another shift, Sherlock is pressing his face into Greg’s stomach, and through the thin cotton of his shirt, he can feel the warmth and wetness of the open-mouth kisses being placed there. Sherlock’s head is pressing against his cock through his trousers and it twitches in response to the arousal pooling in his stomach. Fingers still caught in dark curls, Greg pulls up until the younger man is propped up on an elbow and looking at him straight, eyes wide and face pink with blush. Sherlock looks away, shy.

            “Hey, you OK?” Greg can’t look away from Sherlock’s lips which are open and shiny from the kisses.

            “Yes. I just wanted to thank you; you’re the only one who has ever bothered to care even this much. Thank you Daddy, for protecting me. For wanting to protect me.” His voice is so small, and something in Greg snaps. He tugs up as he bends down and they meet in the middle – soft chaste kisses are interspersed by soul searing ones where Greg licks into Sherlock’s mouth and nips his lower lip and are accompanied by small groans and moans until he can’t tell who’s making them. Needing a moment to breathe, Greg pulls back.

            “Of course, baby, I would do anything to protect my perfect and gorgeous boy.”

            Sherlock moans and twists away, pulling so Greg’s fingers slide from his hair and he’s turned flat on his stomach, legs kicked up so he fits and they’re swinging in the air behind him. “Can…can I thank Daddy like this?” Propped up on his elbows, he’s licking his lips and his hands are moving up, brushing against the outline of Greg’s cock, already half hard from kissing alone. Greg’s muscles tremble from fighting the urge to thrust up into the light touch.

            “Are you sure? You don’t have to, there are other things we can do.” But even as he says it he knows he can’t think of anything beyond those full lips and that perfect mouth wrapped tight around his aching cock. Fucking hell, he needs it. Though he needn’t have worried anyway because Sherlock is shaking his head hard enough to muss his curls and his hands are fumbling with the buttons that Greg’s straining against.

            “I know Daddy, but I want to. Please?” Greg’s hand somehow finds itself back in those messy curls.

            “Well how can I say no when you ask so prettily? Can you give me your safe word?”

            “Bromide.”

            Greg hisses as Sherlock finally manages to open his trousers and pants enough so he can wrap a hand around the heated length. “Good boy. Do you know what to do?”

            “I think so; will you help me though? Show me how to make you happy?” Greg moans as he lifts his free hand to join Sherlock’s on his cock.

            “Oh baby boy, you already make me so happy, but of course. Tuck your lips around your teeth, and move your hand with you to help you from taking too much.” As he speaks, a drop of pre-come wells up at the tip and slides down to where their hands are joined, and goddammit the way Sherlock’s eyes follow it greedily should be illegal. He has to look away. If he watches any longer he’ll come too fast. Greg closes his eyes and lets his head fall back.

            Then there’s warmth and wet and silk gliding up from their hands to the tip, following the path of the pre-come and Greg doesn’t recognize the sound that comes out of his mouth. He can feel more open-mouth kisses being placed liberally along his shaft before pure heat engulfs him and Sherlock’s silk tongue swirls around the tip and digs into the slit.

            “Fuck, Sherlock. Your mouth is perfect. You are perfect. Your mouth was made to be wrapped around my cock.” He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock’s moaning as he starts to move his mouth up and down, tongue still swirling, while Greg drags their fists to follow Sherlock’s bobs. He can’t stop talking. “Oh yes, my perfect beautiful baby, you’re going to make Daddy come. You’re doing such a good job; you’re going to make me come in to time at all. Does that sound good? Daddy coming in your hot little mouth?” Sherlock makes a high-pitched squeak and Greg knows without looking that his legs are splayed wide open at awkward angles and he’s grinding his hips into the couch below him. Greg pulls sharply on the tangled hair to catch his attention. “Coming before I do will earn you a punishment, pet. Do not come.”

            Sherlock moans again and doubles his efforts on Greg’s cock – body vibrating with tension to keep from rubbing against the couch. “Oh _good boy_ , such a good listener. Now make Daddy come, and try to swallow it all.” Sherlock focuses his attention and tongue on the head, his fist taking control below Greg’s, adding a twist as he nears his mouth. Greg is suddenly on the edge and he has to look, has to see what Sherlock looks like sucking he cock for the first time. Opening his eyes and lifting his head, he meets Sherlock’s gaze, face flushed bright pink and curls a complete sweaty mess; and then Greg is gone, riding a blinding wave of euphoria.

            “Oh fuck yes. Good boy. I’m coming.”

            When the aftershocks fade, Sherlock is still there, licking the last of the come from his lips and whimpering, trying to hard not to grind down. Greg takes a second to tuck himself back into his trousers before pulling Sherlock up to straddle his lap.

            “Did I do a good job, Daddy?” His voice is raspy, near tears, hips jerking up against only the air between them.

            “You did a perfect job. You’re so close to coming. Did you almost come from sucking Daddy’s cock?” Hands grasp shaking thighs, stilling their movements. Sherlock sobs.

            “Yes Daddy. Oh please let me come!” One of Greg’s hands slides up to push Sherlock’s head down towards his, pressing their foreheads together.

            “You know, I quite like the thought of you being so desperate for me that you come untouched in your pants. Think you could do it? Wrap your arms around my neck.” Sherlock does as he’s told and Greg lets go of his thighs, allowing him to move again. “How close are you baby?”

            “Really close. Will you touch me please?”

            “Tell me why I should.”

            “Because I did such a good job sucking your cock. And I’ll be such a good boy.” His hips are thrusting up again, but Greg manages to grab onto his arse with both hands, fingers sliding inwards to press against Sherlock’s cloth covered hole.

            “Maybe later tonight I’ll give you another spanking. Spank you right on your greedy little hole, see if you can come just from that too. Would you like that?”

            “Oh! Yes, Daddy. Please!” Sherlock shouts at the pressure at his hole and the dirty words. Greg marvels at how responsive he is.

            “Come on, Sherlock. Come for me.” Sherlock opens his mouth wide, but no sounds come out and his body shudders for minutes on end until he’s limp on Greg’s chest and shoulders, breathing heavily into his neck.

 

            When Sherlock recovers, Greg manages to prod him up and into the bathroom to help clean him up, then moves them back to the sofa where they sit in their original positions in sleepy, sated silence.

            “You think whoever killed Harvey knows about us.” Sherlock’s voice breaks the silence, and Greg doesn’t even wonder at how well Sherlock can read him these days.

            “I do, yes. It makes sense, in a way. I think I’m being followed, have been these past few weeks at least. Maybe you too. And I’m sure I played right into their hands by lying about us. They had to have some idea that I wouldn’t immediately tell someone where I was last night. I know you want to help, but it might be better for now if you stay away. I don’t want you implicated in anyway. I may not be able to personally do anything, but I have Sally checking on some things for me.” Sherlock tries to continue the conversation, but Greg shushes him, wanting to just enjoy Sherlock’s comforting presence for at least one more night before confronting the clusterfuck that has suddenly become his life.

 

It’s dark in his bedroom, hours later, when his phone rings, jolting him out of a restless sleep wrapped around Sherlock, who doesn’t wake. Sally’s name flashes across the id and when he answers, the commotion in the background is much louder than it has any right to be for the time of night.

            “Sally? That you?”

            “Sir, I…you have to come back to the station.” Her voice is tense and Greg feels the unease of earlier coming back full force.

            “Why, what’s happened?”

            “Leavy’s just called about the fingerprints, and everyone’s heard. If you don’t come down on your own, they’re going to send a car.”

            “Sally, tell me.”

            “The only prints on the knife are yours.”


End file.
